DFW Airport, Gate C28. A Boston flight is just leaving from the gate and my Burbank flight will leave from here next. The marquee behind the desk changes from “Boston” to “Burbank.” Several Burbank passengers are lined up to speak to the gate agent.

Another gate agent emerges from the jetway and comes to the desk. “Is anyone here going to Boston?”

We all look at each other. No, we’re all Burbank passengers.

“Boston? Anyone for Boston?” she asked again.

So I sang:

“She said, ‘Please come to Boston.’ We said ‘No.’”

Nobody got it. But, hey, it killed me. And Beth got it, because she’s been married to me for too long.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Elvis tattoo is leaving the building. La Grange, you can keep your southern, drawling, inbred, NASCAR loving, bickering, “I don’t get it, that’s stupid,” complaining redneck attitudes to yourself.

(But thanks for the Waffle House coffee mug!)

Me?

I.

Am.

OUTTA HERE!